I sat on the couch with my 9 month old nephew cradled in my arms. I stared at his face with a wonder and amazement reserved for observing only the finest works of art. His light, smooth skin seemed the result of a painter who perfected the shade with a dab of this color and that color until the outcome was a creamy peach with a hint of rose. The artist brushed the delicate paint over the perfectly sculpted contours of his plump cheeks and tiny round nose. And for eyes, only the bluest and largest sapphires would do, framed by soft strands of golden silk. As I held the bottle in his mouth, he contently stared back into my eyes, his glistening black pupils jutting about to the different areas of my face. It seemed like he was waiting to have a conversation, I just had to start it. Using the couch armrest for support, I curled my left arm farther around him, freeing my right hand. I raised my right index finger and pointed at my nose. “Nose?” I said with a bit of a question in my ...